


It's a Small, Oblivious World After All

by chaostheorem



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaostheorem/pseuds/chaostheorem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames had known Arthur for fourteen years, and Arthur had been rejecting him for fourteen years. Or so Eames thought, until a talk with Ariadne put Arthur in a new light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Small, Oblivious World After All

“Fourteen years, Ariadne. Fourteen bloody years I’ve been after Arthur, and nothing. I think it’s time to cut my losses and move on.”

“After only fourteen years? Are you sure you’ve tried hard enough?” Ariadne teased, glancing up from her iPhone. Eames’ mood must have shown on his face, because she sobered quickly. “Right. Serious time.”

Eames sighed softly, turning his head back and forth on the hotel sofa cushions to try to find a more comfortable position. “No, it’s fine. You’re right to joke. Any sane person would have given up long ago.”

Ariadne nodded, but...sympathetically.

“It’s just - and I know this is irrational and ridiculous - but some small part of me always thought it would work out. I’d say something clever, he’d laugh, we’d flirt and talk, go on a date, fall in love. I thought everything would happen.”

Ariadne leaned towards Eames from her spot on the bed and looked at Eames seriously. “Is this small part of you the same twelve-year-old who fell in love with Arthur in the first place? Because that’s not healthy for a man of your age.”

“I was sixteen, thank you. And anyway, it’s pointless now. It’s time to let go.”

“Is that what you’re sure you want?” Ariadne asked. “God dammit! Every pig everywhere needs to die.”

Eames raised his head and glanced at her. Even for Ariadne, that nonsequitur was strange. She turned her iPhone around, showing Eames a screen full of collapsed wood and crumbled stone, one smiling pig in the middle of the destruction.

“I swear to god, I will destroy him and shit on his grave.”

“You’re playing Angry Birds while I’m pouring out my soul to you? You are the worst therapist. I should fire you.”

“I’d make the best therapist, fuck you very much. And you can’t fire me because I’m your friend and occasional colleague, not your psychiatrist. I weep for Carol.”

“Carol and I have a very pure bond,” Eames said. “I give her money and she gives me drugs. It’s love.”

“I think you’re missing the point of therapy.”

“Your face is missing the point of therapy,” Eames muttered under his breath.

“You’re the very definition of maturity, Eames. Every thirty year old should aspire to be as mature as you.”

Eames flipped her off. “Back to Arthur,” he started.

“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” Ariadne mocked. “Are you an adult or not? Just ask him out.”

“I have tried,” Eames said, heavily emphasizing each word.

“In what ways?”

“In _every_ way.”

“Tell me,” she commanded.

So Eames did.

**

“So, prom’s coming up,” Eames said over the dim buzz of the crowd. He congratulated himself on the perfect mix of interest and nonchalance.

Arthur looked up from the stack of dollar bills he was counting and smiled, making Eames’ heart rate skyrocket.

This was it. This was the moment he’d been waiting for since his family had moved here a year ago and he’d seen Arthur across the street, legs hopelessly tangled in his dog’s leash. A year of waiting, all coming to fruition right-

“Sorry. Did you say something?” Arthur asked.

“Oh. Um, prom,” Eames stuttered out.

Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Do you have to work the prom booth, too? I thought I had you all day.”

 _You’ll always have me,_ Eames thought, then gave himself a mental slap. _It’s a crush, that’s all. Stop making declarations of love,_ he told himself firmly.

“No, no, you do,” Eames hurried to say. “I think Dom and Mal have the three-legged races well under control.” Eames pointed and Arthur looked, both watching as Mal tied two legs together unnecessarily tightly, making their owners wince in pain. Dom stood nearby with a small smile, pleasantly watching Mal torment people.

“She’s something,” Arthur said with his own smile, and Eames wondered once again if the water in this town made people crazy.

“Yes, well, I am here for you to command. I will blow up however many balloons you wish me to.”

“Yeah? Will you make me a couple while I finish up?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the money.

Eames glanced at the board full of balloons waiting to be popped, the box full of replacements, their booth’s nonexistent line, and said, “Sure.”

“So, what about prom?” Arthur asked when he was finished, taking two balloons from Eames and picking up a nearby dart.

Eames was immediately anxious again. “I was wondering if you were going?”

Arthur doesn’t answer, instead choosing to slowly push the dart into the balloon, closely watching the way the balloon bent under pressure. Arthur pulled the dart back up before it pierced the rubber, then ran his finger over the indention.

_I’m in love with a psychopath. No! Not love. A crush. I have a _crush_ on a psychopath. Except he’s not a psychopath. He’s...quirky._

Eames was jolted out of his thoughts by a loud pop.

“Dammit. Too far,” Arthur said with a frown, staring at the rubber remains of the balloon. He reached for the spare, but sat it aside when a young girl ran up to the booth with a dollar.

“Good morning, Alice,” Arthur greeted, and _of course_ Arthur knew this little six year old girl. Arthur knew everyone.

“Would you like to play?” Arthur asked.

Alice nodded eagerly. Eames handed her five darts and stepped out of the way.

“So,” Eames began. “Are you? Going to prom, I mean.”

“I can’t,” Arthur said with a simple shrug. “I’m only a sophomore.”

Eames’ hands started to sweat. “You can go if an upperclassman asks you,” Eames pointed out.

Arthur huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, sure. Who would ask me?”

Eames’ heart sank. Arthur had no clue about his feelings. He didn’t want to go to prom. He probably didn’t want Eames here right now.

Eames took a fortifying breath. If he was going to lose Arthur, he was damn sure going to make sure he’d done everything he could before it happened.

“Actually, I was wondering if-”

The second balloon popped before Eames could finish.

“Dammit!” Arthur cursed again.

“Urgh!” Eames burst as he jumped, startled.

“Aaaah!” Alice screamed as she threw a dart straight into Eames’ arm.

**

“It’s not funny,” Eames told a laughing Ariadne. “It’s tragic. The beginning of my doomed relationship with Arthur.”

“You’re right,” she said, bringing herself under control. “Not funny,” she agreed, and Eames gave a contented nod. “But really,” she continued, “that doesn’t count. You never actually asked. What else have you tried?”

“Well, next was the homecoming game bonfire."

**

Eames surveyed the dwindling crowd, watching as yet another couple climbed over the fence and into the field, swallowed quickly by the darkness.

Swinging his gaze back to the fire, his eyes gravitated to the slim silhouette outlined there - Arthur, sitting and staring into the flames. Arthur - the only reason Eames drove forty-five minutes into the country tonight.

“You know, that’s bad for your night vision,” Eames said when he approached.

“Only if you want to see at night,” Arthur answered.

Eames frowned, confused. “No, it’s bad regardless.”

Arthur shrugged, then grabbed a kerosene-soaked piece of wood next to him and tossed it in. The fire flared sharply for a few seconds, then died down.

“Do you ever wonder what the first cavemen thought when they discovered fire?” Arthur asked.

Eames shook his head. “Can’t say that I have.”

“How many of them do you think caught fire trying to figure out what it was?”

Eames thought, once again, that he really liked this quirky guy.

“Dunno. Handful, maybe?” Eames offered.

“Yeah,” Arthur agreed with a nod, still staring straight into the fire.

They lapsed into silence, and Eames started psyching himself up.

“The party’s dying down,” he finally said. “Think I’ll be heading home soon.”

Arthur nodded. “I’d head home, too, but I rode with Dom and Mal. They’re in the house talking with his uncle.”

Eames celebrated inwardly, while outwardly he said calmly, “I could give you a ride home.”

“What?” Arthur asked, looking away from the fire for the first time. “Oh, no. I couldn’t impose. I live, like, twenty minutes away from you now.”

Eames was acutely aware that Arthur had moved across town a couple months ago. Spying on old Mr. and Mrs. Fain just wasn’t the same.

 _Yes, you can! Impose. Impose all you want. An hour. We would have an_ hour _alone._

“It’s really no trouble,” Eames said. “It’s only twenty minutes.” _Twenty minutes in which you fall in love with me._

Arthur waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. I really don’t mind waiting.”

“Are you sure?” Eames asked with a forced smile.

“Yeah. Thanks, though,” Arthur said, then turned back to the fire.

“Yeah, no problem. I’ll see you at school.”

“See ya.”

**

“Did you go back to your car and scream and beat the steering wheel?” Ariadne asked.

“No. I did the manly thing and listened to love songs and...let my eyes tear up.”

“You cried, didn’t you?”

“If I did - hypothetically, mind you - it would have been a single, manly tear.”

“Sure,” Ariadne said, her voice magnanimous. “The thing is, you still didn’t ask him out. You offered him a ride.”

“A ride in which I would have asked him out,” Eames defended.

“Excuses. What else?”

“That was it for a while. My dad transferred back to England, and I didn’t hear or see anything about Arthur until he published his first book.”

**

"Eames?"

Eames glanced over his shoulder at the questioning tone and saw a pregnant woman smiling at him.

"It is you," she said, leaning forward to press her cheek to Eames'.

“Mal? Mal Miles? What are you doing here?”

“It’s Mal Cobb, now. Dom and I are taking a final vacation before the little parasite arrives.”

Eames searched Mal’s face for a hint of fond humor, but she just smiled serenely. The somewhat unsettling stare put Eames straight back in high school, watching Arthur, Dom, and Mal spend their days in apparent dream-like states.

“Small world, huh?” Eames offered to break the silence.

“Yes. A Frenchwoman and an Englishman attend the same American high school, then meet years later in a Spanish bookstore. Serendipitous.”

“Yeah.” Eames wasn’t sure what else to say to this person he hadn’t seen in eight years. “Where’s your other half?” he finally settled on.

“He’s after a copy of Arthur’s book. He wants an Spanish translation. You remember Arthur, yes?”

“I do, yeah. So he’s an author now?”

Mal hummed and looked as if she was about to say no before she nodded. “A good one,” she said. “He’s tried his hand at all sorts of things. Writing is merely something he does in his downtime.”

 _Downtime for what?_ Eames wanted to ask, but Mal continued talking.

“He was a zookeeper for years - very good at it - but he left when his zoo took away funding for the reptile house.”

“He left the entire field?” Eames asked. “Was there a problem with taking a job at another zoo?”

“He is a man of firm principles. Don’t test them, because you’ll always lose.”

“I’ve noticed,” Eames mumbled, almost to himself. “Did he go straight to writing after that, or...?” he asked, trailing off.

“He’s always been a writer,” Mal said with a slight frown. “Don’t you remember when the local theater performed his play?”

Eames shook his head. “Not at all. Must have been after I moved away.”

Mal looked mollified. “To be honest, his plays are crap, and that one only got performed thanks to a dazzling display of nepotism, but his novellas are quite good.”

“I’ll have to check it out,” Eames said diplomatically. He wasn’t lying, because it was _Arthur_ , so of course he’d read the book, but he couldn’t say that Mal’s endorsement was the best sell he’d ever heard.

“I’d give you my copy, but I’ve written all over it and I don’t want to lose my notes. How about I just give you Arthur’s number and you can ask him for a copy. He’ll sign it for you.”

“No, no. It’s fine,” Eames protested with a shake of his head. “I’ll just grab it when I get back home.”

“Don’t be silly,” Mal said. “Give me your phone.”

Four hours after standing in the middle of a busy bookstore and having his phone commandeered by a half-crazy pregnant woman, Eames found himself staring down at Arthur’s number. He pressed call.

The phone rang once.

He wasn’t the same fumbling teenager. He could ask Arthur out for coffee without making a fool of himself.

Twice.

He was far from inexperienced after his time in the military, and then in dreamshare.

Three times.

Except he hadn’t spoken with Arthur in nine years. Arthur might not even remember him, and even if he did, he’d think it strange if Eames suddenly asked him on a date.

Four times.

Eames zoned out while the automated message played, so he was startled by the _beep_ telling him to begin.

“Oh! Hi, Arthur. This is Eames, from high school? Not sure if you remember me, but I ran into Mal Miles today, well, Cobb now, but she gave me your number and told me to give you a call. She said you’re in Chicago most of the time, and I’m heading there soon, so we should meet up and reminiscence about the horrors of high school. Give me a call if you’re interested. Bye.”

***

“Smooth,” Ariadne said.

“Tease if you want, but it worked.”

“Yeah? How’d it go?”

“Well enough,” Eames said. “There was the slight matter of my showing up thirty minutes late - not my fault - but Arthur hardly seemed to notice.”

“Hmm.” Ariadne looked unsurprised. “So judging from your current gloominess, this coffee date didn’t fulfill your grand plan of flirting and laughing and falling in love. What happened?”

“Nothing right then. That remains my most successful almost-date with Arthur.”

Eames ignored Ariadne’s soft “How sad.”

“The problems started again at his birthday party a few weeks later. I’d kept in touch with Mal, and she told me to stop by the bar.”

Ariadne cringed. “You got drunk and made a fool of yourself, didn’t you?”

“Ariadne, love, you have no idea.” 

**

“What you need, Arthur, is an education in seduction,” Eames said. “A seducation.”

Arthur looked unimpressed. “Oh?”

Eames shifted so that he was sitting flush against Arthur, their sides pressed together. “Yeah,” he whispered, dropping his voice low. “Let me show you,” he said, although it came out more as a question than the domineering command he was going for. Dammit.

“You have two minutes to convince me you’re a good teacher.”

Eames wanted to scoff, but one of the most important rules of seduction is to never insult the seductee. Others would argue, claiming that well-placed back-handed compliments work well, but Eames left those for the amateurs. Instead, he leaned even closer, letting his lips brush Arthur’s ear. “I’ll only need one, darling.”

Eames had used this basic move before, well aware of the effect of his lips and his voice, and he normally got a shiver of anticipation from his partner. Arthur, on the other hand, checked his watch.

“Starting now, then,” Arthur said.

“What you want to do first,” Eames said, keeping his voice low so he could continue to lean in, “is make your partner feel comfortable. That’s going to be different things for different people, so take your cues from them.”

“How so?”

“The Q&A comes later, darling. In our hypothetical seduction, let’s say the person being seduced is comfortable with physical contact. Start with light touches, a simple hand on the shoulder, graze of the thigh, so on.”

Arthur looked like he wanted to ask a question, but he followed Eames’ rule, and Eames couldn’t even try to deny the thrill of what he could do with that obedience in other situations.

“If you’ll indulge me in some hands-on learning?” Eames asked, and Arthur nodded. Eames brought his hand up from where it rested on his thigh and cupped the back of Arthur’s neck, letting his thumb brush behind Arthur’s ear. “You want to show your interest. Let them see your desire and the effect they have on you, and they’ll be more open to the idea of opening up to you in return.”

Eames dropped his hand down to Arthur’s knee and slowly moved it up to his thigh. “Seduction so often has a negative connotation, which I find unfair. An artful seduction isn’t about enticing someone into an act they feel uncomfortable with. It’s not a trick. Seduction is a promise of pleasure for all parties involved.”

“Well done, Eames,” Arthur said in a level tone, apparently unaffected. “A fine beginning to my seducation.”

Eames shook his head slightly, pulling away from Arthur a bit to check his watch. Almost sixty seconds exactly. Damn Arthur and his infernal sense of time.

“Excuse me. I need another drink,” Eames said, getting up and most definitely not running away, even if he never did return to Arthur that night.

***

“You know most of the rest,” Eames said. “Turns out that Mal and Dom were in dreamshare as well, they brought Arthur in a couple years later, limbo happened, etc., etc., here we are with Arthur ignoring me as always.”

Ariadne sighed. “I’m trying really hard not to call you pathetic, but you’re making it difficult.”

“There’s only so much rejection a person can take.”

“Eames, he’s not rejecting you, he’s just oblivious.”

“No one is that clueless. I’ve done everything aside from write him an invitation.”

“Well, maybe you should. No, seriously,” she said when Eames scoffed. “Arthur spends a lot of time in his head.” She chuckled. “Literally.”

Eames stared at her.

“I get no appreciation,” she said. “About Arthur though - he’s the type of man who won’t recognize someone else’s interest in him until it’s too late. Give him a problem to work out and he’s your man, but drop hints and he’ll never even see the problem. You should come straight out and tell him you want him.”

Eames didn’t say anything. If Ariadne was right, the only thing standing between him and Arthur and a relationship was a simple declaration. If she was wrong, he’d lose the small hope he’d kept alive since high school, and unhealthy or not, that hope had gotten him through a lot of things.

“You said you’d decided to move on. Don’t you think fourteen years of pining is worth the try?”

“I wouldn’t call it pining,” Eames muttered, “but I suppose you’re right. Who would have thought architects could be so useful?”

Ariadne threw her pillow at his face.

***

“Eames, would you relax?” Ariadne hissed at him. She grabbed the model Eames was playing with and set it down gently. “You’re going to break everything and make me start over.”

Eames grinned at her in apology. His invitation for Arthur was resting in his inner jacket pocket, and the end of the work day could not come soon enough.

“Don’t you have a forgery to perfect? Or at least someone else to bother?”

“I can’t do anything until Arthur gets back with more Somnacin, and since it’s a three-man job and he’s not here, that leaves you, love.”

“How did I get so lucky?” Ariadne said sweetly. “Oh right,” she said, her cheery tone disappearing, “fucking Cobb and his job offer.”

“Fucking Cobb,” Eames agreed with a nod. “Although to be fair, I don’t think you can blame him for continuing to accept jobs.”

Ariadne grimaced. “Don’t bring your logic into this, Eames. No one wants it. Now go away.”

Eames passed the next hour fiddling with binder clips he stole from Arthur and brainstorming new forgeries in his head. Arthur came back with the Somnacin after that, and Eames descended into the dreamscape and lost himself in work for the rest of the day.

When he came back up, Ariadne was slipping on her messenger bag and Arthur was at his desk, working away.

“Have a good night,” Ariadne called from the door, and Eames nodded and Arthur raised his hand in farewell, then she slipped out.

Arthur gathered a pile of papers, reached into his desk, and then drew an empty hand out. He turned to Eames with a look of suspicion on his face. “Did you take my binder clips?”

“Yes, but it was for a good reason, and I will give them back to you as soon as you RSVP.”

Arthur didn’t look confused often, so Eames took special appreciation of the look on his face.

“RSVP to what?”

“To this,” Eames said, taking the invitation out of his jacket and walking it over to Arthur. Arthur accepted it gently, cradled it in his hands while he read his name, then suddenly pulled his knife from an ankle holster and violently sliced open the envelope.

Eames didn’t know what it said about him that Arthur’s psychopathic tendencies turned him on more than anything else these days.

 _“You are invited to a seduction,”_ Arthur read. He flipped open the card and continued reading. _“I, Eames, would like to invite you, Arthur, to a seduction._ Very specific,” Arthur said with an approving nod.

“Thought you’d appreciate that,” Eames said with far most confidence than he felt.

_“If you are open to the idea of being seduced, please attend dinner with me this coming Friday at seven o’clock in the evening. Please wear clothes you would like to be seduced in. Sincerely yours, Eames.”_

Arthur didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t do anything. “Well?” Eames asked.

“I’m thinking,” Arthur answered, sounding utterly unconcerned.

“About?”

“How to RSVP. I think I’m going to have to say no.”

Despite his every plan in the past fourteen years ending this way, Eames still felt surprise and despair roll through him at Arthur’s answer. “No?”

“No,” Arthur repeated, then smiled. “Friday’s a long way off, don’t you think? Why wait?”

“Why wait?” Eames said, because he’d apparently forgotten how to think and could only repeat Arthur.

Arthur shrugged one shoulder, looking very pleased with himself. “I feel damn seducible right now.” 

“But I made a reservation,” Eames said, his brain stuck fifteen steps behind. “A seductive reservation.”

“Good,” Arthur said. “You rarely plan ahead. It’s alluring that you did.”

“Dinner on Friday, then. It’s a date. But until then...” Eames said, his brain _finally_ catching up.

“Until then, you should deliver some of that pleasure you’re promising me.”

“Ah,” Eames purred, “so you were listening that night.

Arthur leaned back in his chair invitingly. “I’m a fantastic student. You should teach me more.”

Eames moved in close to pepper light kisses along Arthur’s jaw. “Gladly,” he said, smiling into Arthur’s neck, then huffed a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Arthur asked, his hand running through Eames’ hair.

“Ariadne’s going to be insufferable.”

“What?”

“Nevermind,” Eames said, kissing away any further questions. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow, once we’ve both been thoroughly seduced.”

And the smile on Arthur’s face from that? That mischievous, almost terrifying smile that said Eames was in way over his head? Totally worth fourteen years of waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Neil Gaiman's [instructions on how to seduce a writer:](http://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/18932682858/as-requested-by-too-many-people-making-the-last-post)
> 
>  
> 
> In my experience, writers tend to be really good at the inside of their own heads and imaginary people, and a lot less good at the stuff going on outside, which means that quite often if you flirt with us we will completely fail to notice, leaving everybody involved slightly uncomfortable and more than slightly unlaid.
> 
> So I would suggest that any attempted seduction of a writer would probably go a great deal easier for all parties if you sent them a cheerful note saying “YOU ARE INVITED TO A SEDUCTION: Please come to dinner on Friday Night. Wear the kind of clothes you would like to be seduced in.”


End file.
